All Saints'
by Sadazen
Summary: Raoul pays his last respects on All Saints' day. [Fixed, and reposted. Please R&R.]


**Disclaimer: **I no own. You no sue.

**A/N: **Edited and reposted, due to the obsessive compulsive tendencies of the authoress, and the computer's refusal to cooperate. (smacks computer) But anyway... Sat up late the weekend before finals, feeling emotional, and wrote this. Here's hoping you enjoy. (raises glass) Clink clink!

* * *

_**All Saints'**_

_Paris, 1872…_

That time of year has come around again- the time in which the clouds gather overcast and gray like mourners before a funeral march, heavy with snow that refuses to fall. Tangled, leafless branches score a pewter sky, and whispered elegies are borne on the wind to every ear.

The world grieves. So does he, after a fashion, even if the memories are old copies of copies long since faded and water-stained. Two years is a long time for recovery, especially for a young man in the prime of life, but an ache remains that he knows will never quite disappear.

He may even prefer it that way, this black-clad young viscount, walking slowly and purposefully into the graveyard on the grounds of his home, on the morning of All Saints' Day.

He stops first at the graves of the parents he barely knew, taking in the names and dates inscribed on the marble headstones with quiet, accepting eyes. One unanswered question after another enters his mind.

_What would they say if they saw me now? Would Father be angry? Would Mother cry? Would they prattle on and on about the demands of the aristocracy, like Philippe always said they used to do?_

Then again, some questions need not find answers.

_Perhaps I'm giving them both less credit than they deserve._

The idea comforts him a little, and Raoul moves on. His thoughts drift to his sisters, grown up and gone away with children of their own, then to reminiscences of seaside picnics on summer afternoons, horsing around on the beach as a young boy, watching the play of sunlight on the glassy surface of the sea.

And a voice, distant and stern, but always kind.

"_Careful, Raoul. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."_

Raoul's lips turn up in a half-smile, affection and regret melding into one as his gaze falls on the white marble headstone before him. He sinks slowly to his knees; the mist in his eyes clouds his view of the inscription.

_Philippe  
Comte de Chagny  
Beloved son and brother_

"Two years ago now, Philippe." The viscount's voice trembles, addressing the grave with all the hesitancy of a child reaching out to a newfound friend. "Two years ago on this day, you went to heaven. And I'm sure it's wonderful there, but I miss you.

"It's a shame that you left without giving me the chance to explain everything, though it's true enough that you didn't have much of a say in the matter and I… well, I was a lovesick fool. I still would have liked that everything was clear between us."

He remembers, clearly, his brother's words.

"_What are you thinking, Raoul? Will you never learn? I want only the best for you, and she isn't it…"_

And what had he said, in the heat haze that is blossoming romance at its zenith?

"_Goodbye, Philippe."_

A sigh. "Well, brother, maybe I'll never learn. And I certainly can't promise you the whole story of what happened that night, especially if Mother and Father are with you now. It's not the sort of tale you'd want to hear in heaven. I can only tell you a little, since I feel I owe you that…"

Raoul continues, speaking into the loneliness of the graveyard of the living myth that was the Phantom of the Opera, his pursuit of Christine Daaé, and of the darker side to his great love.

"His obsession tore him apart from the inside, especially those last days, but in the end he must have decided that he loved her enough to let her go. She came with me willingly, and wed me willingly, though it was clear that she left part of herself behind. She told me herself that she'll never sing again."

He shakes his head. "Bless her heart; she had enough love in it for both of us. While I will miss her voice, I know things are as they must be."

Ruefully, he adds, "But, Philippe, I would have liked it if you'd been standing at the altar with me on our wedding day, all the while saying 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do'. I would have liked it very much."

The young man ceases for a moment to bend his head. His shoulders shake with restrained sobs, but he cannot weep. He will not.

"Don't worry, Philippe," he whispers at length. "I'm not crying. You always said that we can't afford to cry; we're held to higher standards of behavior, whatever that means. And you didn't cry when our parents passed away, did you?"

He dashes, vainly, at his eyes. "You were my hero, up until the end. I'm sorry you never knew that, and I'm sorry I've disappointed you. Maybe I'll make it up to you, one day… I'll make you proud. I'm not crying, really, but I have to go soon…"

Softly, hands joined and head bowed, Raoul de Chagny recites the prayer of the bereaved.

"May the Lord bless you and keep you

May the Lord let his face shine upon you

And hold you in the palm of his hand

Forever."

That done, he rises to his feet, leaving the grave for another year.

"Goodbye, brother. I'll see you again, next All Saints'. And I promise I won't do anything you wouldn't do."

* * *

"Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, 

And let perpetual light shine upon him.

May he rest in peace."

The woman, not long out of girlhood really, ends her prayer, lifting her eyes to where an almost reverent hand rests upon the headstone before her. It is marked with a single word.

_Erik_

She smiles, the bittersweet smile of one who has known much of life, and stands with practiced ease. "Goodbye, Erik. I'll see you again, next All Saints'."

Her husband meets her halfway up the path to the manor, clasping her hand in silent comfort. Condolence. She returns it evenly, for she knows that his need is as great and inexplicable as hers.

Hand in hand, they return home as the first snow begins to fall.

_**Fin**_


End file.
